The Game That Could Not Be Won
by Ace Ryn Knight
Summary: "It was exhilarating in a way, this fight for dominance that meant their game- if he could still call it that-would never end."  Joren/Neal My Enrty for the August Challenge at The Tamora Pierce Experiment: Writing Challenges.


**A/N 1:** I apologize now for my abuse of commas. I loathe them so I abuse them. I know it's strange and wrong on so many levels _but_ I felt like it. Bite me. You can stick your flames someplace tender because if I were listening then I wouldn't be posting this. My response for the August challenge over on the The Tamora Pierce Writing Experiment:Writing Challenges forum.

**A/N 2:** **This is a story about ****Neal and Joren****. You have been warned. Sally forth at the peril of your own sanity.**

**A/N 3**: Two characters in the same universe? Check. A crack pairing written as realistic as I can manage? Check. Mindbreakingly mindbreaking? Double check.

.

.

.

The Game That Could Not Be Won

By

Ace Ryn Knight

.

.

.

Joren did _not_ like the word 'no'. Most especially if that 'no' stood in the way of him getting what he wanted. In this case the word tore at him; it had been whispered teasingly- a heated brush of breath along his neck and the faintest touch of soft lips nipping at the shell of his ear- with the heady scent of peppermint lingering in its wake.

Right now he wanted the too tight hands pinning his wrists above his head to let go. There were other places those hands could be, tender places where attention from the skillful digits would not go unappreciated.

"No," Neal told him once more as he pulled his mouth away.

He rolled his eyes, nostrils flaring with irritation. Neal, being a great deal taller than him, had him at a disadvantage trapped as he was between the mage and the cold stone of the palace curtain wall at his back. There was enough light in the lightening pre-dawn sky for Joren to clearly see the flash of white that signaled the mage's self satisfied smile. This had to end soon, a satisfied Neal usually spelled trouble- particularly trouble for him

When the older boy swept in to press a smiling kiss to the pout he'd adopted upon being denied his heart's most current desire, Joren had to fight down the not-so-little part of him that enjoyed this far too much. That one little voice that giggled an ran about in circles whenever the other boy- _man_, the voice whispered dreamily—cast so much as a glance in his general direction.

What had begun as a particularly devious (in his mind at least) way of making the willful squire (then a page) to dance to his tune had clearly tumbled far beyond his ability to control the situation.. When he'd first ambushed (the word sounded so much better than 'childishly sought out and molested' to Joren's mind) the older boy one midwinter eve with forceful kisses that left them- to Joren's surprise- mutually breathless, Joren had only thought to assert a power over his green-eyed rival and torment him with a mind game full of 'what' and 'why' that he could not confide to anyone.

Neal's retaliation for that most unusual strike against him had followed the manner of Joren's initial play for power. Joren had been cornered in his chambers one early morning by the mage and what ensured left them both once more struggling for air. Now they played at the ambush-and-retaliate game at every opportunity just as they had. It was a game that Joren had come to realize neither of them could win.

Their prides were too similar, their wills too strong. Neal would not lose to him, would not back down without taking what was due to him and paying Joren back in equal turn for that which the blonde had inflicted on him. Likewise Joren could not allow the other squire to gain an advantage over him and so he continued to 'ambush' the healer-knight-in-training.

This tryst was meant to be _his_ ambush, not Neal's, though it seemed the mage had other ideas in mind. A number of those ideas seemed to revolve around the larger boy's need to torment and tease and play until Joren was frustrated with the lack of anything _productive_.

It was more than any sane person could willingly take.

"I hear the trollop got herself saddled with a baby griffin," he said daringly as the older boy paused in his assault on Joren's mouth, "Her bleeding heart is going to get her maimed or killed one of these days. Personally I hope it's the latter. That way those around her won't suffer and die for her incompetence."

The mage's eyes darkened furiously, the shimmer of his gift flashing out to replace his hands in pinning him roughly to the wall. "Don't speak of her like that," Neal hissed, "She is my friend-"

"Then you have poor taste in friends. She is a Lump who doesn't know her proper place in the world and if we're lucky the griffins will get rid of her for us." He countered, tugging at the magic holding him in place. Time had taught him that when Neal got worked-up his control over his magic slipped.

"Did you know she's been lying with the Knight Commander since the spidren hunt in her first year. I knew she was a loose woman now, but I tell you even I was shocked when I-" He was silenced by the older squire's mouth crashing down upon his with punishing force. He even tasted blood as sharp white teeth that were not his own bit harshly at his bottom lip.

It was exhilarating in a way, this fight for dominance that meant their game- if he could still call it that-would never end. For an end to come one of them would have to concede defeat and give up these stolen moments together.

Joren knew he didn't want that; he didn't dwell on the why behind his distaste for an ending to their give and take game, nor on the odd, aching leap in his chest whenever he considered that what they had might one day end.

"Do you admit defeat?" Neal demanded when Joren stilled and went oddly silent.

The blonde's response was an instant and emphatic cry of 'No!'.

Neither of them could give up now. They couldn't just walk away from this. It wasn't possible. Joren wouldn't and thus Neal couldn't either. It was a matter of pride! It was a matter of honor, surely. He wouldn't let it go. Not ever. He'd sooner die than have that happen.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N(Again): Confused? Alarmed? Thrilled? Burning with soul-deep hatred? Let me know in a review.


End file.
